it was early, i was still sleepy and mildly annoyed having to go to work. (not that working annoys me, but my particular avenue of employ is in a place of no joy. i digress...)
first i saw the boots walk up the t steps. for all you guys, they were kinda like this, but lower. they looked like hobbit boots then too!
above the boots, lace-trimmed grey leggings wrapping very heavy thighs. a cut sweatshirt a la flashdance completed the ensemble. mondo big red lips, raccoon black-lined eyes, pasty face and fried silver-yellow hair. she was the material girl-era madonna, but writ grotesque. it only took a millisecond to process her -- to wonder how she got so stuck in the 80s, and how could a granny so obviously NOT going to a costume party leave the house like that? in the daytime even? really, it's an instant indexing, lol.
then the bad: "noodle? ohmigod!! noodle? is that you? it's me, _________." she stomped over and got close. i realized who she was, and that i haven't seen her in about 15 years. maybe a few more? she is roughly my age. she looked so haggard, so washed out, yet blown up.
so.
damn.
old.
she looked old enough to be her own mother. how did that happen? big puffbags under her eyes, a swollen face, and the clothes? what, what, what was she thinking? we worked together years ago, and i did like her. she was loud and big and coarse, but kicked ass as a bartender in a busy place and was very funny. she wasn't somebody i needed to keep knowing when i quit, though, ya know?
through my shock, i struggled for small talk, and lucked out cuz it was only 2 short stops.
it's been a few days and i'm still reeling. i am not the bulimic popsicle stick with boobs of back-then, but still she knew me. she looked like an alien. please, please, what did you do, so i can do the exact opposite?
i've been struggling with my self-image and self-esteem. i managed to halt the slide before the mirror crack'd, but i have a long way to go. this was a wake-up call from a cartoon. (years ago, snl did a game show skit called, "my french whore". a jeopardy-style set, with nasty ho's in various states of dissolute dissipation. including the one whose contestant said, "uh, my whore is dead!" yeah, she looked like them, ok?)
that night, i came home very late, but knew i'd procrastinated coloring my hair, and couldn't/wouldn't/shouldn't another moment. it looks very nice now -- a new shade. every morning i make myself look at myself in the mirror. all of me. my own index of me. that will continue as punishment/motivation until i see what i'd like others to see. really see. i was surprised this morning to fit in some things i thought i might not. they were buttoned, although not quite ready for prime-time. that's progress though and that's good.
i can't take back all those days at the beach and all those drug-soaked nights that ended with the dawn. but i can give myself a better tomorrow and the next day. all that woman's face-cake frosting never will make her pretty. i'll settle for mascara and slim. :)
No comments:
Post a Comment